


Strangers

by darkangelmya



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: End Game Spoilers, Gen, Post L&L, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangelmya/pseuds/darkangelmya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard did not know what brought him here, what possessed him to visit his father's grave, but perhaps he had more to say to the deceased king than he had once thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers

They were the tombs of the kings of old. 

Each with intricate markers, glories and honours left for the ruler residing within them whether they deserving of them or not. Statues were raised in their honour, words carved into stones upon which few eyes fell, this was a place very few walked. Away from the cemeteries in which most paid their respects, this was a place reserved for the Windor family, a place none save its lone king had reason to be.

Why Richard found himself here, that he did not know. He could not say what crossed his mind, which thoughts bore him to this silent place, accompanied by nothing but stale air and the stench of death to fill his lungs. Even beneath the sun, even in the endless wind that swept through Barona, this place was stagnant; cold and barren of anything that might hold meaning to the line’s last living member.

These were his ancestors, this tomb his grandfather’s, then his father before him, and back generations immemorial. Richard had learned each of their names, their achievements, their methods, had history drilled into him until he could recite it without pause and yet that was all the meaning these names held to him. Words in a book, little more.

He reached the end of the path, each progressive step on newer stone, each monument less faded under the wear of time until he came upon the last, his own father’s grave. Richard had forbidden his uncle a place here, though even now he only vaguely recalled what had been done with the body. So lost in the thralls of madness he had scarcely cared, only insisted that the traitor be given a traitor’s burial, yet another act of desecration on a man he’d despised, as if his butchering Cedric’s corpse had not been enough.

How long he stood before the grave, even Richard did not know. Seconds, hours… it blended together into an existence in which it mattered little, in which time was a novel concept beyond consideration. All that existed here was the wind that tossed blond hairs and a black cloak about, and icy marble beneath his gloves as a hand traced the words carved upon his father’s grave.

Richard waited; fingers followed each letter, eyes memorizing each chip in the stone, each petal on flowers laid by groundskeepers with no heart behind them. He waited in this timeless place, waited to think, to feel anything. But like these grounds and the air about him, all Richard found was emptiness.

He felt nothing for his father’s death, not the grief of loss, or the regret he saw on Asbel’s face when standing before Lord Aston. There was no twist in his heart or churning of his stomach. No hatred burning deep or indignation at a loss that came too soon. He stood before this grave as he would stand before any other stone to be found on Windor’s roads, unshaken and unfeeling.

What kind of monster was he?

But that was a question he had answered long ago, answered when he had proven that he was as unworthy of this place as the uncle he had denied. He knew that, perhaps on some level always had. This place was one of honour, a place to glorify that which each king had accomplished. Yet what had he done worthy of glory? Nothing. He had betrayed his country, betrayed his crown. He was every bit the traitor he had proclaimed Cedric to be. That he stood here, feeling nothing before the grave of his own father, was perhaps proof of that.

 “I came here… to speak with you,” Richard began, his golden eyes resting upon the dark grey marble. “I thought perhaps I could finally find it in me to mourn, now that everything is over, now that there is some measure of peace in these lands and yet…” his voice trailed off.

“I was so angry when you were killed, so ratcheted with emotion I lost myself. I was angry at the knights for their treachery, I lusted for vengeance upon Cedric. I thought I led those men to war to avenge you, to do right by your name but perhaps I always knew the truth. Those were simply words I used to appease myself, to ease my descent. I only ever did those things for myself.”

“I should be sad, standing here before you. I should have… a hundred things I wish to tell you and yet… I do not.” Richard fists tightened at his sides, black fabric twisting between each finger as his chest echoed emptily. Inhaling sharply before uttering the next words, his voice little more than a whisper. 

“I don’t know you.”

“I never did… I think even now, I still don’t. We were strangers you and I. You died and I felt nothing, my anger, my revenge, every bit of it was selfish. I strung words of loss and grief but they were as empty that day as they are now. You were my king but… you were never my father.”

Richard swallowed. “I do… understand, if only a little why you acted as you did. I always knew the burden of the throne, even before I bore it myself, I did not resent you any of it and yet…”

And yet, what? What words had been about to escape his lips, what confession before a body without a soul to hear it. Had he wished otherwise? Had somewhere in his heart of hearts he yearned to know what that might be like? To have a father who took interest in him, who had time beyond simply his duties, who was healthy enough to spend time with his son and not waste away in his chambers fighting poisons not of his choosing? It wasn’t his fault, Richard knew that, he knew that Windor had to come first, that there were more people relying upon the king than a twelve year old prince and yet…

If he did not care then why was he here? What carried his footsteps to this place? What weighed on his chest so heavily that he could scarcely draw breath?

“I…” he hesitated, wavering in his thoughts, in whatever conviction had brought him here. He knew this feeling, this weight. He knew it because he had felt it a thousand time, had never completely rid himself of it for near six months now. He felt guilty.

“Perhaps I simply wanted to apologize,” Richard finally said softly. “For not being able to grieve as a son ought to for his father. For being a failure… for not being the kind of king I should have been. I…” Richard paused a long moment. “I betrayed them… our people. This kingdom. I grew up hating wars and yet I started one to seize the throne. I murdered for my crown and then my first act was to throw it away, to steal for myself all that I was supposed to protect. I threw this kingdom into chaos, nearly destroyed everything, simply to satisfy my own selfish whims.”

“So in truth, I have no right to be here, no right to stand before you, to pretend to be your son, this country’s king. I’m a monster who cannot even feel sorrow for his father’s death, yet I feign to think I can govern a nation. I can’t! I’m not- I’m not worthy of any of it. I-”

Richard’s fists clenched tighter until the skin beneath his glove bleached white, until all his frustrations and his guilt swelled so dangerously high those fists slammed down on the tomb, doing little save send pain firing up his arms. Richard fell to his knees, his forehead meeting the cold stone of his father’s grave.

“I’m not… someone you could be proud of so… I suppose I wanted to say that I was sorry. You were right, not to invest your time in me. To not give me a second glance, to leave me to the tutors… Maybe you could see it all along, that I would falter, that I would fail. Is that the reason? Is that why… even now I cannot understand you? Why you and I… will forever be strangers?”

“I want to do better, I want to fix my mistakes,” Richard continued, the words falling out onto the empty air, little save grass and stone and fallen petals to hear his pleas as they grew desperate. Combatting a monster that had always dwelled within, with his conscience that somehow weighed heavier upon him in this place though the eyes of his predecessors all upon him, judging him for his treachery to the land they had all died serving.

“There are so many things, so much that I did not even realize. It is all I can do to keep Windor together, to keep peace between countries, to keep the citizens safe. I swore I would move forward and yet I can’t- I cannot even do that on my own! I am not worthy of this crown or of these lands and their people… I do not deserve to wear it but there is no other. None I could entrust the throne to, but I-”

_I am just a child!_

Part of him wanted to scream. To curl up and to lash out at the very same time. How easily people forgot that beneath regal dress and golden crown sat little more than a nineteen year old boy. One upon whom life had weighed until none could imagine him a child, who bore a weight and a country upon his shoulders and guilt immeasurable upon his heart. A novice on the throne no more than six months, trying to piece together a world he had ripped apart by his own hand. Who struggled under the weight of it each and every day until it was near unbearable. Who watched even now as Nova monsters multiplied, as people were hurt on roads he should be keeping safe. As he fought and fought and fought and was still _failing._

Would he ever be good enough? Could he ever be the king, the person that Windor needed? He wasn’t like those before him… he wasn’t like Asbel with his charisma and his strength, he could string together words but he did not know how to inspire. He was weak, still so pitifully weak that he was here before the grave of a man he did not know trying to find some manner of absolution that would never come.

“I’m not… the king you hoped I would be, if you ever imagined me a king at all,” Richard all but whispered. “Surely you laugh at me, wherever you are. I visit you here, for whatever halls you have found, surely I will not be joining you when my time has ended. I am a mockery of a king, one who can only flounder in hopes of not failing his kingdom so miserably as he has done until now.”

“But even so… I made a promise, an oath to myself that I would keep moving forward. That I would continue to fight for this country… this world, for the dream you always laughed at. So even if I can never make amends, even if in the end it is ultimately meaningless before what I have done I… I cannot stop. I won’t stand still… not any longer. Even if I never become anything more than a disappointment to you, if I can accomplish that much I will be satisfied.”

Richard stood to his feet, stared at the gravestone still feeling as indifferent to the monument as when he arrived. Somewhere in his heart it still belonged to another. Though he spoke words such as father, they still felt empty, carried no meaning in his heart. This would always be the grave of a stranger. Nothing would change that… would it? Did he regret then that he had no regrets? Or was Richard simply weighed down by the knowledge, the reminder of how horrible a person he was to feel nothing for his kin.

“That is… all I wanted to tell you. This is the longest we have ever spoken; you and I. Forgive me for blathering on and… for letting you down, for betraying whatever hope you might have fostered in me. I will leave you then, surely you have more important matter to tend than I. Perhaps… all I truly came here to say was goodbye.”

Letting out a sigh, Richard turned on his heel, slowly motioned to part from the monument when something caught his eye. A collection of flowers growing at the base of the grave, orange blossoms that he had not seen until this moment. Unusual flowers to be near a grave, the tiger lilies stood out from the green grass and it was in that moment his eyes began to water, the first show of emotion from the blond since he had arrived. The tears he’d choked down, had buried deep within found their way through that single crack and no level of will could force them back down.

Tiger lilies. A flower of compassion, of unending love. A flower given to impart a single message. 

_I am so proud of you._


End file.
